


the unintended consequences you would rightfully expect

by heelys_with_extra_wheelies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: An adult is needed but there is no adult, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Harry Potter, Dumbledore is an asshole, Fluff and Angst, Fred still dies and it's the worst, Gay Pride Month woot woot, Harry is an oblivious cutie who tries his best, M/M, Mentions of PTSD and Anxiety, Ron and Hermione are kind of dicks here, Self-Discovery, Sexuality Crisis, Swearing, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, War, are these even valid tags, but he's an asshole, canon-compliant deaths, he doesn't mean to be, rarepair hell, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24696172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heelys_with_extra_wheelies/pseuds/heelys_with_extra_wheelies
Summary: Harry James Potter fancies Cho Chang. He knows it. She knows it. His dead parents probably know it at this point. Then why, alone in the Room of Requirement, all he can do as they kiss is wonder how long, exactly, it's supposed to last? And more importantly, when can he leave?Harry James Potter was raised in a cupboard under the stairs by a couple who never so much as shook hands. Is it any wonder that his perception of what relationships are supposed to be like are thrown so incredibly out of whack? Good thing his best friend's older brother is here to be supportive, and listen, and look at him like he's human, and hang out with him outside of class, and make him laugh, and be incredibly handsome, and oh Circe please no.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore and Child Neglect, Harry Potter/George Weasley
Comments: 11
Kudos: 66





	the unintended consequences you would rightfully expect

**Author's Note:**

> So. Uh. *nervous coughing fit*
> 
> Hi. I'm trying to publish a lot of stuff for pride month. A one-shot at least for every aspect of the community, to be exact. I just published my first one, a study of an ace/aro relationship, about a week ago and now I'm here throwing characters at a wall until two stick and start making out. This time it's George Weasley and Harry Potter. And okay, fine, maybe it's a bit out there. 
> 
> But think about it this way. Harry Potter is a kid who really needs to laugh. Like, someone tickle this poor boy before he immolates in a ball of stress. He's got a world on his skinny little shoulders with a pinch of childhood neglect, and who better to fix that than someone who was born to entertain. I feel like George is kind of his twin's patron saint- Fred is the instigator, the catalyst, and George is the one that trails after making apologies and covering their tracks. Out of the two, he's the one that's less irrational and more mature.
> 
> And hey, George comes from a big, healthy family. He knows EXACTLY what a good relationship looks like, and he is not afraid to show Harry how it's done. 
> 
> Am I pulling all of this out of my ass? Oh, 100%. Do I ship them? 
> 
> Well.
> 
> Most of these 2020 Pride fics are supposed to be one-shots. This one's turned into 4 chapters.

Harry… is pretty sure kisses aren’t supposed to go like this. He’d heard all manner of adjectives that weren’t really adjectives but people used them like they were anyways. Fireworks, blooming flowers, drowning, flying, running, dying. He didn’t know how any of them were linked to one another, but, well. Harry had found people tended to be silly like that. But the point is, snogging is universally acknowledged as Pretty Damn Great. So, obviously, he had been enthused when Cho started doing exactly that. With him. But the excitement didn’t really last as long as he expected it to. In fact, Harry is starting to get suspicions that there had never been any excitement at all, and there is a very distinct sting of betrayal because Ron had preached diligently on the benefits of tonsil hockey for _years_.

It’s wet- because she’s crying and, well, mouths tend to do that. Be wet, that is. There’s teeth, which is unsettling because for some reason he had never expected them, despite all the time they’ve spent behind his own lips being bothersome. And breathing is difficult. Because Harry’s not really sure that’s what he’s supposed to be focusing on here, but the way they’re huffing out little breaths through their noses on each other tickles something awful and he’s trying very earnestly not to do it. 

And of course, there’s the fact he’s thinking about all of this. Processing it, analyzing it. Harry doesn’t think you’re supposed to. People always describe a fuzzing mind, a sudden flush in temperature, making all sorts of embarrassing noises. Lots of moaning, if the twins were telling the truth. And, groping? Maybe? Touching each other, at the least. On the elbow or something. But him and Cho are just kind of bowing towards each other and meeting awkwardly in the middle. With their faces. There is a distinct lack of physical affection, apart from the whole kissing thing. Which honestly, he’s starting to get a bit confused by.

How long was this stuff supposed to go on for? More than a minute didn’t sound right if it wasn’t going to lead to anything. For the first time in his young life, Harry wished that his aunt and uncle might have been a bit more affectionate with one another. Then maybe he would know what to do. And he _did._ Want to know what to do, that is. Cho is nice. Harry likes her. He was pretty sure that he had a crush on her last year, what with all the blushing and squirming and embarrassing daydreams about holding her hand. And there’s a reason for it- she’s smart, she’s pretty, and she’s good at quidditch. He wants her to be happy.

And that is exactly why he’s starting to feel a bit uncomfortable here. Harry is pretty sure kissing is supposed to be something both parties are into. There’s supposed to be a sort of enthusiasm, isn’t there? _Harry_ certainly isn’t all too excited about it, for all that he’s happy to help. And Cho, for all she is trying, and she _is_ trying, doesn’t seem all too pleased about it either. She’s still crying, for one. Which makes him uncomfortable. Kissing is supposed to be… fun, right? He knows people cry at weddings sometimes, but that’s joyful crying.

This is “my boyfriend died and I’m really, really upset about it” crying. Then, the obvious question: If Cho was upset about Cedric, why was she snogging _him?_ And he doesn’t know. And that isn’t him being a Gryffindor again, or a Potter, or any of the many things people associate with him that are dumb. Harry just doesn’t get it. And… they’re still kissing. Is that a problem? Neither of them have been making the noises the twins were talking about, and Harry doesn’t feel warm at all- rather, the chilliness of the Room is starting to get to him. It’s drafty. 

He should… _probably_ do something about this? Harry kind of wants to go to bed. It’s been a long day and he doesn’t really feel up to doing any more of this snogging thing. But now there’s a different problem to solve. How exactly…

Does one end a kiss?

Oh dear.

This _is_ going to be a problem, isn’t it?

In the sanctity of his mind, Harry, very quietly, starts to panic. Does he step back? Sprint in the other direction as fast as he can? Freeze? Hex her? Summon another student to embarrass them out of the embrasser through willpower alone? There’s a fuzzy, Dursley-afflicted memory of some woman on the TV saying “It’s not you, it’s me” and then running away into the night as dramatic music plays in the background. A distinctly Gryffindor part of his mind starts to consider it. 

And then Cho Does A Thing. He isn’t sure exactly how to feel about it, because it all sort of happens… quickly? There’s a series of steps, definitely, an evolution of sorts, but Harry finds himself so flabbergasted by the whole chain of events he isn’t even sure where to start. At the beginning, he guesses. 

She stops moving. Not that there was much moving to begin with, there’s only so much of it you can do when the only parts of your body touching are _lips,_ but she stops swiveling her head back and forth. And then she starts crying. No actually, she had already been crying, Harry corrected himself. She simply started crying _harder._ There’s an attempt to grab for the lapels of his cloak, and in a moment of blind panic where Harry can only remember pale hands and red eyes and bad intentions he almost bolts straight into the wall they started resting against at some point. 

He doesn’t, but it’s a close thing, and in the end he still ends up stumbling away from Cho Chang, heart in his throat and magic buzzing in his fingers, regret on the tip of his tongue as his logic catches up to the instincts of the amygdala and says _mistake._ But he can’t exactly take back a desperate dodge and wild eyes that he knows rolled in his skull like loose dice and say “let’s go back to snogging”. So he doesn’t. Harry just… kind of… stares?

He’s not exactly sure what he was hoping to accomplish but whatever it was the intended consequence was not Cho making a run for it herself. The confusion fogs Harry’s mind more efficiently than the prior face sucking ever had, and he can only watch dumbfounded as the hysterical Ravenclaw, who instigated this entire situation in the first place, bolts through the secret door and, assumedly, to the tower where her dorms are. The flag of her silky black hair disappears around the corner like a whisper and Harry is left alone. 

The deliciously potent mix of guilt, relief, and confusion hits him like a stunner to the chest.

_Ow._

Where the hell had that feeling been when he was kissing? For Circe’s sake. He rubbed the back of his neck, side of his hand jostling the wire rims perched upon his nose. It was an expression of frustration, the only one Harry allowed himself as he turned a reflective eye on the room he stood in. His classroom, you could say. The Room of Requirement was lit up in false shadows and fabricated moonlight, the sort that spun the mirrors lining it into dazzling portals where the mechanical death eaters dashed merry lines to and fro. Around him, Hogwarts hummed her quiet song- a shiver in his bones that Hermionie had told him was the sound of the ward key resonating with the school’s boundaries. But aside from that, a rhythmic _clack clack clack_ and the low vibrato of stone brought to life, it was silent in a way Harry’s mind had not been for quite some time.

Even during study sessions, classrooms were never silent. There was always someone whispering in the back, a frustrated student turning a page with more force than necessary. The rare confident muggle-born or halfblood, humming Spice Girls tunes to the staccato tap of quill on parchment. Sometimes when he listened past the faint ring of tinnitus that just kind of comes with having your life in danger at regular intervals, Harry could even hear students passing in the hall, and the first years across the way patiently reciting the water-creation charm.

And he didn’t know if it was just the magic of the Room listening to his wishes, or simply the castle itself at work, but… here it was quiet. And that tiny little part of him, the one that still lived under the stairs and dreamed about falling in love and freedom and sunlight, was happy. Maybe Harry should start coming back here by himself more often. He took a moment to soak in the absence of noise, the tranquility of it all. And then, like a true Gryffindor, he squared his shoulders and straightened his spine and made for the common room with a single-minded focus.

Hermionie is… upset. This is slightly confusing, and she refuses to address the situation directly excluding a high-handed “That was _rude,_ Harry” which he found quite frankly unwarranted.

At least she wasn’t Ron though- true to form, his friend had exploded. “Harry. You’re telling me you were snogging with Cho Chang. The same Cho Chang you fancied all of last year. And you were alone. _And you didn’t like it?_ ” his light brown eyes had been wide with horror, and there had been something distinctly familiarly unfriendly about the twist to thin red lips. It made Harry uncomfortable like little had managed to do in recent years- it was his impression that the two of them had come to the understanding last year that he just wanted to be normal, and here Ron was, acting like he… wasn’t. Again. 

Harry had called him, in a moment of frustration exacerbated by exhaustion, Umbridge-induced stress, and hunger (skipping lunch had not been his _brightest_ idea), a “fucking prick.” 

As one could have expected, an argument erupted that would only be quelled when a vengeful seventh year girl fresh out of a study session came upon them like a nightmare and cursed them both with body-binds before tossing them handily into the dorm. It was not a satisfying end to the evening, and Harry found himself cursing sourly to himself into the early witching hours waiting for the curse to wear off. It was easy to remember where this had all started. Wrapped in his bedsheets, listening to his roommates snore, Harry decides quite firmly that snogging will be an adventure best left to his friends.

The next morning, he asks the question squatting in his mind to the people who could answer it best. Harry corners the twins during break (because they really do seem to know what they’re doing) and, looking back on it, quite forcefully, demands answers. “Why is snogging so bloody awful?” it’s blunt, it’s to the point, and yikes, maybe a bit desperate. 

Four identical eyebrows raise in unison. The twins exchange glances. Fred(at least he thinks it’s Fred) is the first to break the silence, leaning back against the stone hallway they’ve sequestered themselves in to pick at the fraying end of his tie. “Well,” he begins casually. “It depends on who you were doing it with.” George(at least he thinks it’s George) shrugs and nods his head at the same time, copying his mirror image and tucking himself between a supportive column and the wall. There’s a moment of silence.

“That’s us asking you to tell us who it was, Harrykins,” George says helpfully. Or, at least, the twin on the right does.

“Cho Chang.” The words come out of Harry’s throat like they’re being dragged, and it’s impossible to stop himself from adding to it. “It was after the DA meeting. She started talking about Cedric and then she started crying and then she kissed me.” Fred lets out an admiring whistle, and yeah, Harry can definitely pinpoint them now. Fred’s always been the more outgoing, more caustic of the two, and Harry can identify with certainty that the twin on the right, currently eying him with what might be compassion(might be pity), is George.

The one who isn’t staring into the distance nodding his head and humming thoughtfully, in this case George, leans in to continue the conversation in his stead. “Didn’t you fancy her last year?”

“Yeah,” Harry says helplessly. “But not anymore? I mean-” his hand comes back up to rub at the neck again. “You’re supposed to like kissing the people you fancy, right? But I didn’t? I was just thinking about going to bed the entire time. And how to get out of it.”

George, entirely unhelpful, leans back to rest his head against the wall. The pale column of his throat bobs as he swallows. “I dunno, Harry. If you didn’t like it, you didn’t like it. Maybe kissing just isn’t your thing?” Ah, and there’s the eyebrow wiggle he had been bracing himself for. 

Fred, apparently back from whatever daydream sequence he had concocted, picked up where his twin had left off. “Could have just been the wrong person at the wrong time in the wrong place, you know how it is.”

No. No, Harry didn’t know how it was. Obviously. “But there was _nothing._ I didn’t even recognize her as something interesting! I was just trying to figure a way out of it!”

Fred cackled. “Don’t let Chang hear you say that, Harry.” Abruptly however, his face sobered and Harry was starkly reminded that yes, the Weasley twins had their moments of seriousness too. “Really, though. You have too much on your plate to worry about snogging. So don’t.” He shrugs as if that’s the simplest thing in the world. 

Again, George jumps into the conversation, an impromptu rescue that leaves Harry feeling more than a little grateful. “It’s not like Umbitch would allow relationships anyways. It’s better to stay under her radar, with how you’ve been dancing on her grave lately, yeah? But we’re free whenever you need an ear, extendable or not.”

“We are?” that earns Fred a viscous elbow to the ribs. “We are!” he corrects himself cheerfully. The two grin at him, easy as can be, and Harry knows that he’s found allies. In this, at least. 

A week passed. Then two. Cho Chang did not return to the DA meeting place, and Harry couldn’t exactly pinpoint why but he was pretty sure it was his fault. Directly. But was there really any time to worry about girls who cried in cold rooms about dead boys when there was a target in front of him? Was there really any time to worry about why snogging Cho had felt so _awkward_ when there were children to lecture, a teacher to vanquish, a war to prepare for? 

Harry, very carefully, managed to forget he was still a child himself. And very carefully, like the wizarding world was made of candy floss and glass, placed the weight of his people upon his shoulders. And very carefully, did not think about how very little he felt like killing Tom Marvolo Riddle. And very, _very_ carefully, pretended that he didn’t want to run.

The twins… kind of fell into the background after that, as much as Harry hated to admit it. He would see them in the hallways between classes and the many, many detentions the three of them had been racking up as a unit in DADA and kind of, grimace in their general direction? Usually Fred would give a cheeky wave, and depending on whether they were together or separate, George would either follow suit or roll his eyes and tap his wand to his temple in imitation of hexing himself. 

And then Umbridge said something about Cedric again, and Harry, to put it mildly, blew his top. Was it just this year he had started going around calling people assholes, bitches, pricks, and fucking liars, or had he always been this foul-mouthed? 

Something to reflect on, Harry decided without preamble as he carved yet more lines into his hand with Umbitch’s blood quill. A tickling charm to the cruciatus, he had to keep reminding himself cheerfully. A pinch on the wrist compared to the basilisk bite from his second year. A spitball to the neck when placed in competition against the almost-kiss from a resident dementor year three. Absolutely _nothing_ on dragonfire, or a three-headed dog, or professors that intended to kill him. 

That didn’t stop it from itching. And Harry knew, with the kind of certainty that came with near-death experiences, that this would be the scar he would hate the most if he ever lived past the age of twenty. _I must not tell lies._ It stared up at him from the back of his own hand, welted and ugly. For every night Hermionie managed to somehow squirrel murtlap essence into the common room, there were two more where he slept in the bathroom, laying the back of his hand against the cool porcelain tile in a futile effort to soothe the burn. Every detention seemed to add a week of recovery time, another month’s worth of scarring that would never fade. 

And also, it meant Harry kept missing meals. Remembering to feed himself was enough of a problem already without other people getting in the way, and his by now routine DADA detentions made sure he went to bed hungry, hurting, and angry. Unless he did what he was doing right now, and snuck into the kitchens.

The late hours made it hard- teachers knew full well where the entrance was, and the memories of sneaking in themselves did not lend any leniency to those caught loitering. But Harry had been sneaking around authority figures before he was five. It was a matter of seconds to whisk around a sleep-deprived Professor Sprout and jump handily over an uncharacteristically sour Flitwick before he was muffling the giggle of a pear and slipping into the one safe haven Hogwarts still retained.

The characteristic hustle and bustle of house-elf living hit him like an enthusiastic slap in the face. And Harry meant it in the best way possible. It was the opposite of the Room of Requirement, loud enough that it could fade into white noise without problem, but peaceful enough that you could relax.To Harry’s right stretched the four house tables, the head table a speck in the far distance- dinner had ended more than four hours ago, so naturally all of them were not only bare but perfectly cleaned and polished. Upon his arrival, approximately ten pairs of luminous, tennis-ball eyes swung in his direction like homing beacons and darted towards him with an unparalleled ferocity. 

“Mister Potter! Does Mister Potter need food?”

“Or a drink?”

“Or a blanket/”

Their shy faces looked up at him, starry-eyed and eager, and Harry had zero clue how other people managed to refuse them. He gave a quiet nod and a mumbled “Thank You” that sent them squealing and scrambling to gather his things. One leapt deftly atop his shoulders and yanked off his cloak, another house-elf bundling it up under a crooked arm and scurrying into a corridor that he could presume led to the washing machines. Even as he watched, bemused but accepting, there was a coordinated, enthusiastic effort to yank his jumper and shoes off that left him in suspenders, slacks, and a white-button up as the elves raced off with their prize. Again, presumably, to clean them. 

Harry huffed a laugh and rubbed the back of his neck again, ignoring the sting as raw skin stretched over his hand. “Harrykins?” an incredulous voice called, and the Gryffindor turned on his heel with a raised eyebrow. George Weasley was sitting at the Gryffindor table in the exact same spot he always did during mealtimes, mouth agape and, notably, alone. 

Harry gave him a casual wave in greeting and jogged over, sliding into the seat across from the redhead. “Where’s your shadow?” George seemed to acclimate to his presence a bit at the question, returning to his leftover turkey sandwich with vigour. He held it like it was the last thing on earth, and even from across the table Harry could see the bags under the older boy’s eyes, and the weariness hanging heavy on his Quidditch beater frame.

“Somehow, Umbitch only managed to catch one of us this time. Fred got caught, I didn’t. Still missed dinner though, and well… now I’m here,” he explained with a crooked grin. “What about you?”

“I had detention,” Harry admitted. He raised his scarred hand and wiggled the fingers in time with his eyebrows. “Do we match, you think?”

Okay, he hadn’t meant anything by it. Honest.

Harry thought it was just understood that… everyone who had detention with Umbridge had gone under the blood quill? Hermionie and Ron had been upset about it, oh certainly, but there had been a sort of “nothing to be done” air to both of them and he had thought it understood that, indeed, there was nothing to be done about it? And that, well, as fellow troublemakers, they might bond over the suffering somehow? In retrospect, even if it had worked it would have been an awful idea.

It didn’t work, which made it ten times worse. Rather, instead of laughing or rolling up his sleeve to compare, George changed colors. First he went white. White enough that his freckles stood out like moles, and from years of Weasley interpretation Harry could recognize that as somewhere between disgust and horror. And then redder than his hair, a sign of anger as clear as grey clouds were of rain. And his brown eyes were viscous, turning almost yellow, and there was a moment that rang clear and true where Harry, for a second, was genuinely afraid. 

“What the _fuck? That manky slag! Is that a blood quill?”_ Sandwich forgotten, George stood up from the table, vaulting it like an olympian to tackle Harry’s hand into the table with surprising gentleness. He was… positively frozen. The fear was gone, but in its place was an embarrassed bewilderment that had his prouder, definitively Gryffindor side attempting to reclaim his limb without much success. “It is,” George said, half awe half slowly-bubbling rage. “I’ll kill her. I’m going to kill her. Right now.” He stood up and made to leave, but Harry James Potter is _not_ Hogwarts’s youngest seeker for nothing and lightning quick reflexes manage to grab him the edge of his friend’s cloak, if little else. 

“Absolutely not!” Harry squeaked. Much to his horror, the sentence cracked right down the middle. “Absolutely not,” he repeated, a bit firmer. “Don’t be ridiculous. They’ll put you in Azkaban and then Molly will kill you.” 

George scowled like a thundercloud, and it’s nice seeing someone fired up on his behalf for once. “Okay. Yeah.” A moment of mutinous silence as Harry refuses to relinquish his iron grip on the hem of George’s cloak, even as the seventh year strains for the exit like a cop dog ready to go off the leash. “They’re illegal,” he grinds out, and Harry can slowly but surely feel the tide turning in his favor.

“I know, George,” he says reasonably. “But the Ministry is, excuse my language, fucked to hell and back right now, and Dumbledore doesn’t have the power to kick her out or get her arrested. There’s no one to go to. Trust me, I’ve tried.” okay, fine, maybe a bit of bitterness creeps in at the end there. Screw him, it’s the first time someone’s done beyond the bare minimum of sympathizing in a while and it’s strangely addictive. 

A final tug at the cloak yields a huffy ginger settling back across from Harry at the table, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. “You have a point,” George allows grudgingly, lips twitching despite himself. “The ministry is _beyond_ corrupt right now. I just-” the humor evaporates in favor of a sigh and vigorous face rubbing, sending ginger hair pointing in every which direction. “Want to help,” he finishes lamely. 

“Believe me,” Harry responds dryly. “This meeting has given me more energy than murtlap essence has for the past two months.” His friend lets out a strangled hiss that Harry would almost call Parsletongue.

“Two months? She’s been making you write with a blood quill for two months?” Cue more face rubbing and hair ruffling, until Harry is facing a rather sour looking George Weasley that looks like he just rolled out of bed. “Two months?” he repeats, grabbing Harry’s hand and practically yanking him across the table to examine the growing scars a second time.

“Two months!” Harry cheerily confirms. Despite the serious topic, the worry is sending sparks off in his stomach, a pleasant roiling feeling like a spell about to come loose. Long, calloused fingers are probing but gentle as they examine the red, raised flesh around the edge of the wounds, soothing the hurts without so much as a feather’s touch. 

“And you said you’ve been using Murtlap? Thank Merlin for Granger, she knows her stuff.” even with the tutting, George still finds the time to motion over a house elf and mumble something before it darts off in a flash. 

“Oh I’m hurt, how come you don’t know it was me?” Harry probed cheekily. George snorted, and again, like he did with Cho Chang, Harry finds himself noticing the way warm air rushes against the small hairs on the back of his hand. He files it away in his mind to examine later. 

“Because for all you’re ace at Charms and DADA, your theoretical is manky as a stray dog. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.” George taps his temple cheekily, and Harry can’t hold the laugh somewhere between a snort and a giggle that rushes through his nose before he can catch it. George gives him a sickle-shaped smile, success and triumph and smugness compressed into a single expression. “Anyhow,” he continues. “Stop robbing Sprout and Pomphrey. The house elves down here will get you Murtlap any time.” 

As if on command(and maybe it was, you never knew with house elves) one of the knobby-kneed creatures in question appeared with a pop, teetering on their feet under the weight of a large, stainless steel bowl. They placed the prize down upon the table, cautious to avoid spills, and accepted George’s quick thanks eagerly before disappearing once again. It was filled to the brim with Murtlap Essence. Harry wasted no time in rolling up his sleeve and plunging his hand into the goopy mess with a sigh of relief. The pain washed away almost immediately.

“Thank you,” Harry manages to expel gracelessly. He knows the smile stitched across his face is exhausted, but… it’s honest, and that’s the best he’s been able to give in a while. George gives him a grin that seems to have trapped sunshine, and without express permission Harry’s stomach decides to do a little jig and drop directly between his feet. “Harblarg,” he manages.

“I understand,” the older student manages gravely, before erupting into a fit of giggles that threatens to yank Harry into it too. It stops before he can really get going though, and he fights off the disappointment like a champion. “You, good sir Harry, need to go to bed.”

It’s such a childish form of address that a complaint is already on his lips and ready to fire, but George’s patient, attentive face says he not only expects it but has a rebuttal that will fluster Harry even more. So instead he nods, making a point of doing it grudgingly. 

George smiles again and oh man, Harry’s really buggered it this time, hasn’t he.

**Author's Note:**

> If you feel like gauging the mood I was in writing this chapter, I was listening to the Scary Jokes for roughly three hours. Hit up their Spotify if you like espionage lesbian music and angst because those bops are tasty. 
> 
> Will be giving a band recommendation at the end of every chapter based off of what I listened to the most while writing. In case you were wondering why I wrote that. Oops.


End file.
